


One-Timer

by fourfreedoms



Series: Action Reaction [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Grinding, M/M, PWP, blackhawks ensemble - Freeform, toppy!Patrick, two rules au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “It’s not your job to take care of me,” Jonny tells him. </i>
</p><p>Jonny was only ever fighting Patrick, because Patrick was fighting him. It takes a while to realize he gave up control a long time ago. A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/942536">Two Rules.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	One-Timer

**Author's Note:**

> I was doing a time stamp challenge on tumblr [here](http://the4freedoms.tumblr.com/) (slowly but surely), and crownofbananas asked for Two Rules. The version I wrote on tumblr was pretty rough (yay 2 in the morning), so I cleaned it up a little (a lot), and stuck it here.

Jonny’s first game back comes two weeks into the season. After he missed all of the pre-season, their home opener, and a stretch of road games, there was speculation that he had rehabbed too long, that he wouldn’t be able to come back the way the organization had hoped.

 

It bothers Patrick more than it bothers him.

 

“This is unbelievable,” Patrick says, shaking his iPad at Jonny from where he sits on a kitchen stool waiting for Jonny to finish making breakfast. “Fucking unbelievable. He’s acting like you’re Steve Moore, tragically done forever!”

 

Jonny looks up from the pancakes he's flipping. He cranes over, peering at the masthead. The Trib. “Who is it?”

 

“My nemesis,” Patrick says darkly. That can only mean Rosenbloom. 

 

Jonny laughs and comes up behind him, taking the iPad from his hands and pressing a kiss to the side of Patrick’s neck.

 

“Ugh, get the fuck off me,” Patrick replies, batting at him. Jonny bites him, hard, and Patrick groans, slumping back into him.

 

“So easy,” Jonny replies and goes back to his pancakes. He doesn't quite miss the way Patrick's eyes flash at him. 

 

*

 

The Hawks have been playing well enough without him, which ultimately matters more than anything else, especially after their playoff exit last year. Nevertheless, he would be lying to say he doesn’t feel an enormous sense of relief, standing at center ice, facing the flag while they sing the national anthem.

 

Which is why the first period goes spectacularly sideways on him. He hasn’t been able to get it together with Sharpy and Hossa at all, even though everything had been fine in practice since he was first cleared for contact. It’s not just him though, everybody has gone completely wooden, playing like they’ve never seen each other before. It’s almost farcical.

 

Three goals later, with Sharpy injured, the misery compounded by some stupid penalties and a bunch of really bad calls by the refs, the period of hell finally comes to an end. The Ducks have been grinding their noses in it.

 

In the locker room Seabs shouts at them to get their shit together, tearing apart every single line they rolled on the ice, until finally Jonny puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“They get it,” he says.

 

“Do you get it?” Seabs fires back. 

 

“Hey, lay the fuck off,” Patrick says, straightening up off the bench. “You don’t get to talk to him like that.”

 

There’s a profound silence in the room. Patrick Kane has never defended Jonathan Toews in his entire life. It wasn’t that long ago that the invectives hurled at Jonny would’ve come from him with Jonny acidly giving it back to him.

 

As far as these people are concerned, nothing has changed between them, and why would they notice? Their play on the ice wasn’t ever what was broken about them.

 

Seabs blinks at Patrick, cut off at the knees. “Uh…”

 

Jonny clears his throat as everybody else trades glances. Slowly, one by one, he sees them get over their surprise to finally start paying attention.

 

He says, “So this is what we’re going to do better…”

 

He doesn’t fucking care if the press takes a run at him if this game is a disaster, but he hates the notion that they might go after the team. Q decides at the spur of the moment to stick Patrick back on the first line, and barely 12 seconds into their shift, driving up the ice together, Jonny nets a text book wrap-around goal. Chelsea Dagger goes off.

 

It’s one of the most annoying songs on the planet, it’s always getting stuck in his head, he hates that people like to sing it at him. But he loves it desperately and he had fucking missed it. Patrick lights it up after that, potting two more to tie it up. For you, he mouths, after the second, pointing at him. They score again in the third when Patrick hands Jonny a beautiful pass on the powerplay. Jonny one-times the puck and keeps them out of overtime.

 

Afterwards, in front of his stall, the reporters ask Jonny if he thought he was the missing ingredient to the Hawks' success (no), what he thought about the rumors about his injury (didn’t pay attention), how did he feel, consistently back on a line with Kane after nearly two years (always glad to play with Kaner). He has a hard time responding to them even though the answers are easy, because across the room Patrick keeps rolling his eyes and making himself a nuisance. Once, he draws Jonny’s attention with a tongue stuffed in his cheek, hand moving in front of his face to mime a blowjob.

 

After his second stuttered ‘um, could you repeat that?’ he gives up and tells them he’s a little overwhelmed so that they’ll leave him alone. It’s one of the first times in his entire career that he hasn’t faced up to the press.

 

*

 

Patrick follows him home afterwards.

 

Back in his place, Jonny offers him a beer, but he waves it off, strangely quiet.

 

Jonny shrugs and cracks one open for himself.

 

He putters around the apartment, checking mail, tidying up, as he inevitably feels compelled to do whenever he has company actually standing inside his place. Parts of his suit get scattered around as he goes. A jacket here, cufflinks over there, the striped tie his mother recently bought him on the back of a chair. Patrick rolls his eyes and goes to piss.

 

He’s not sure what exactly Patrick intended tonight. Jonny’s a little beat. His shoulder’s sore, but it’s not killing him. There’s a low grade arousal in his system, that’s what happens when he’s played hockey and he’s around Patrick. He keeps waiting for the day that passes. It never does. This time though, turned on or no, he’d be happy enough to just pass out. The whole thing seems like too much effort.

 

The door to his bedroom creaks open as Jonny’s changing into pajama pants—just Patrick letting himself in—he doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. It’s still warm enough that he forgoes a shirt. When he turns, he catches Patrick giving him elevator eyes. Jonny pretends not to notice.

 

Back in the day, before all this started, Patrick used to look at him. Jonny knows because Patrick told him—the surreptitious and stolen glances. He’s not sure how he missed it. Patrick had said he hadn’t been able to help himself and it just made him angrier. Still, it’s one thing to finally know it, it’s another thing to look up and see Patrick greedily drinking him in.

 

Eyes still on Jonny, he starts stripping off his suit, carefully. Each item comes off and is methodically folded and placed on a chair, a sharp contrast to Jonny’s own careless apparel shedding.

 

He takes his pants off last. It’s not a tease. Jonny’s seen him do this thousands of times in his life. He has yet to get tired of the vee of Patrick’s happy trail slowly revealed or the lines of muscle disappearing into his boxers. Patrick folds the pants as well, running a hand down the legs so that they lay flat. He drapes them over the chair back. Jonny honestly doesn’t know why he bothers. He’s got clothes here. He’s not going to have to do the walk of shame out Jonny’s place tomorrow in his rumpled game-day suit.

 

Turning back to Jonny, who was just standing silently watching him, he says simply, “I wanna fuck you.”

 

The way Patrick eyes Jonny makes him think Patrick’s worried he’ll say no.

 

Jonny rolls his shoulders—a move he no longer takes for granted since his injury. “What are you going to do about it?”

 

Patrick smiles at him, like molasses, slow and sweet.

 

What Patrick is going to do about it is shove him back on his bed. It’s unexpected, and he laughs, bouncing up on the mattress. Patrick kneels over him, pinning him down when he tries to sit up under his weight. As with his height, Patrick doesn’t weigh as much as his stats say he does, but it’s still more than enough that Jonny can’t just throw him off. It becomes a wrestling match, fierce kisses, limbs tangling, as Jonny tries to touch Patrick and Patrick repeatedly bats his hands away.

 

They grind together, Patrick erect against his hip, Jonny’s own cock fattening up from the friction and pressure.

 

When Jonny struggles against him, trying to roll out from under him, Patrick bites his shoulder, with enough force that it moves nearly out of sexy and into pain.

 

“What the fuck?” he demands. 

 

Patrick doesn’t answer. He dips his head, nosing along the impression of teeth in Jonny’s shoulder, before coasting down to gently close his teeth on Jonny’s nipple. He pulls, just a little bit, before letting go of the hardened nub to lave at it with his tongue. The sensation spikes through him—making him huff and let the biting go. The thing is, Patrick loves his chest, perhaps more than he loves Jonny’s ass, which he states is too obvious a thing to pay attention to.

 

Jonny brings his hand up to Patrick’s head, stroking his fingers through his curls. The pressure of Patrick’s mouth on his nipple ceases. He knocks Jonny’s hand aside, sitting up again. His eyes are unreadable, face still.

 

“What—”

 

Patrick interrupts him by curling his fingers around his throat, not enough to restrict his air, but just enough that he feels the pressure.

 

“Patrick—” he tries again. Patrick presses down with his thumb, dragging it into the hollow between his collarbones. It cuts him off.

 

Bending back down over him, Patrick connects their mouths. Their cocks slide together unexpectedly when Jonny moves, and Patrick’s fingers tighten on his neck. It’s a little uncomfortable—Patrick’s grip isn’t painful, but it proves how completely at his mercy Jonny is. Further cemented when Patrick reaches down between them, pushing down on Jonny’s erection with the heel of his hand, circling slightly. It makes Jonny’s middle turn liquid—he throws his head back, testing Patrick’s grip around his throat.

 

Patrick keeps it up, steady pressure from his hand, shifting against him. It’s dirty as hell and they’re still half clothed. Jonny swallows, mouth dry, adam’s apple moving against Patrick’s splayed fingers.

 

Unexpectedly Patrick takes his hand away from Jonny’s cock. He lets out a harsh frustrated exhalation. What is Patrick up to here? He still won’t let Jonny touch him. The silence is killing him, but he doesn’t know what to say, what to ask for.

 

Patrick’s grip loosens around Jonny’s neck, letting go so that he can brace both elbows on either side of Jonny’s head, blanketing Jonny with his body. It’s good manners not to drop your full weight on someone—Patrick doesn’t care and does it anyway. Jonny doesn’t mind. Especially not when Patrick slots his thigh between Jonny’s legs, one strong quad pressing just firmly enough to be a tease. There’s a wet patch on Jonny’s pajama pants, he feels it dragging across his swollen cockhead every time Patrick moves against him.

 

Chaste, with more lip than tongue, Patrick kisses him, controlling the pace so thoroughly Jonny’s head spins. Patrick closes his teeth over Jonny’s lower lip, tugging gently. When he moans, a small broken thing that slips unbidden out of his mouth, Patrick pulls away. Patience sorely tested, Jonny lifts his head, trying to chase that kiss. In that moment, Patrick sets him completely off balance, flexing his hips, weight centering right on Jonny’s cock. He does it again, unhurried, getting the power of his thighs behind it.

 

Jonny hisses, clutches Patrick’s broad back as Patrick works against him. Patrick’s shoulder blades move beneath his palms. Jonny notes abstractly that he can feel Patrick’s heartbeat through his back. He counts, one, two, three, but then Patrick rolls into him again. All thought is driven from his head, undone by the infuriating drag of their bodies against each other. The friction, sharp and perfect, seems to increase every time he thinks he’s gotten used to it. If only Patrick would just give him what he wanted, he wouldn’t feel so dangerously needy.

 

Patrick chuckles, a little breathless, still slowly rolling his hips into Jonny, thigh riding right over Jonny’s dick. His pace is so even, so unhurried, it gives Jonny too much space to focus on nothing but that motion, to feel the build up and the pressure. The arousal in his gut is starting to get a little insistent, a little frenzied as Patrick keeps it up, unmoved by the nails Jonny sinks into his back or his muttered curses. Jonny can only angle his hips into it, push back against him, accept exactly what Patrick’s giving him and nothing more. Not long now and he’ll have lost his head completely.

 

He tests it with a raised knee between Patrick’s legs, forcing his thigh against Patrick’s own erection. Patrick seems to ignore it entirely, unmoved, restraint endless. He won’t be impelled to speed up. Jonny whines, overwrought.

 

“I’ll get you there,” Patrick whispers, punctuating it with particularly deliberate surge into him that has him cursing even louder. Again and again, just like that, and then only a slow circling of his hips. Every stop and start just intensifies it until he’s quaking, nerves zinging with too much sensation and yet somehow not enough. Just when he thinks Patrick’s backing off, he thrusts in hard again, right there.

 

“Ungh,” Jonny chokes and presses his cheek to the pillow. He’s trembling, desperate for it, waiting for every slow thrust. Savage want burns through him every time it comes.

 

Patrick does it over and over. His breaths come in rough gasps, the only sign that he’s affected at all. Jonny moans desperately, biting his lip, needing the dull pain of his incisors to keep him sane. At a certain point, it’s too much, brain overloaded from the measured relentless rocking of Patrick’s body. His entire being seems centered into that grinding connection. He doesn’t know anything else anymore. 

 

He comes like that, face buried in Patrick’s shoulder, every muscle in his body locking up. The sticky sweet wave of it crests in him. A spasmodic shiver wracks his body. It seems to go on forever, inevitable and merciless, until finally he can relax underneath Patrick’s weight. The static shock of it still reverberates through him—makes him quiver and jerk as his eyelids flutter.

 

“Jonny, if you could see yourself,” Patrick says, voice raw as he pushes up off of him. Jonny doesn’t really care about that. He raises his head to look between their bodies at the obscene stretch of fabric over Patrick’s cock. The cotton is slightly darker over his thigh—wet with Jonny’s come. Jonny has to take a moment just to breathe.

 

He swallows and looks back up at Patrick’s face. His cheeks are red, eyes a little hazy, but he stares back at him, unwavering, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s a picture, a debauched dream.

 

Patrick sits back on his heels and the fabric pulls even tighter. It’s almost sexier, more visceral, than if Patrick weren’t wearing them at all. A nervy shiver races through him at the thought. With a defeated sigh, he drops his head back to the pillows.

 

Patrick said he wanted to fuck him. Jonny had intended to put up a little bit of a fight about it. That’s how it usually goes between them—a push pull that never goes away. A power struggle between them that’s become so ingrained through years of fighting, they haven’t ever really been able to set it aside. Tonight just proves it. Patrick obliterated any resistance in him though, taking him apart in the way only he knows how. Now, Jonny easily opens his thighs, spreading them for Patrick. The look on Patrick’s face is as palpable as a touch. He exhales through his nose, nostrils flaring. Jonny shifts and Patrick finally tears his gaze away, stretching to reach for the supplies in the nightstand.

 

Patrick has to pull Jonny’s pajamas off his boneless legs. When the waistband drags over Jonny’s softening cock, a crushed pained sound spills over his lips.

 

“Shh,” Patrick says, cupping Jonny’s cheek and leaning down to slide their mouths together.

 

He loses a bit of time after that, reduced to exhausted languor as Patrick opens Jonny up, patient and purposeful, scissoring thick fingers in and out of Jonny’s hole. This isn’t about Jonny anymore, he wants to give Patrick what he wants, but his every attempt to say as much is derailed when he pushes up with those same fingers to drag across his prostate. How long have they been doing this? Hours? Days? Years? Everything seems to begin and end in this bed. He’s useless, half conscious of the embarrassing sounds he’s making. When Patrick finally pushes into him, the knife-edge of pain sobers him up, makes him feel like he can finally breathe again, no longer victimized by an onslaught of constant pleasure. This though, is not pleasure. They don’t do it very often. Patrick likes it the other way too much, but Jonny’s not used to it, has to force his body to accommodate Patrick’s cock, which feels so thick and hard at the moment Jonny’s not sure he can take it. Just as he's given up on it, the ‘how am I going to stand this’ worries pass, as they always do. Jonny’s body opens up. It starts to feel good again. Too good.

 

It kills him—Patrick driving indolently into him, lingering as deep as he can go, before finally drawing back. Not long and Jonny’s been reduced to that same desperate pliant mess, flexile against Patrick’s methodical offensive. If he was able to hold a thought in his head he would wonder how Patrick is capable of it, how he hasn’t snapped and just taken what he wanted from Jonny.

 

Patrick could pound him to oblivion, Jonny would let him and instead there’s this. This easy protracted glide that makes Jonny feel every inch. He keeps it up like he’s got all the time in the world. The thought of it improbably gets him hard again. It almost hurts. Patrick keeps fucking him, eyes squeezed shut tight, concentrating on something, reaching for a formless goal Jonny doesn’t know of. His thrusts become stronger, somehow deeper still, folding Jonny’s legs back against his body.

 

Patrick presses one of Jonny’s thighs over his shoulder, changing the angle, making Jonny’s hands fly up to grip the rungs in the headboard. He needs something to hold onto, something solid and unmovable. The rungs bite into his palms as he tightens his grip further, trying to anchor himself back in the world. Patrick destroys him completely when he wraps his fist around Jonny’s leaking cock, stroking him off to the same rhythm of his hips.

 

He’s going to try to get him to come again.

 

“I can’t,” Jonny says as Patrick slowly drags his hands up and down Jonny’s shaft, thumb pressing hard just under the pinkened head of his cock. Jonny has to shut his eyes against the sight. He repeats, “I can’t”

 

“You can,” Patrick answers, kissing him soft, in counterpoint to his firm thrusts into Jonny’s body. He draws him off like that, until finally Jonny lights up, all reason and control shutting down. His orgasm washes over him, he’s drowning in it, too much, heart beating hard enough it feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.

 

Then and only then does Patrick let himself come, emptying himself into Jonny’s body, the arms he was bracing himself up on going a little unsteady.

 

When Jonny comes back to himself, he opens his eyes to find Patrick lying on his side next to him, eyes shut, breathing hard. He looks like he’s done bag skate, shaky and ragged and exhausted. When Jonny coasts soft fingertips down Patrick’s bicep, he shivers hard.

 

“It’s not your job to take care of me,” Jonny tells him.

 

Patrick’s eyes pop open, boring into him. “It really, really is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, if you want to bug me with more time stamps while I'm bored at work? Have at it.


End file.
